I am working on a novel. How many times have I said that to you and then years later nothing materializes? The truth is I have finished my second book of poetry. Well I have the edited poems I just haven’t “booked them yet”. I had this feeling I’d submitted the zip file somewhere but now I think I forgot to do that bit and have just been waiting for no reason. As for my novel I am 156 pages in which is by far the longest continuous story I have ever created. Over the years I’ve toyed with different ideas and genres and I think I’ve come upon something that feels right to me, that is me. Much of my life I have been really fighting myself about this writing thing. I really want to write for a living. I am not sure it is possible or how to go about it but there you have the cold hard truth 😂 My book will be romantic/erotic/supernatural. It’s not the same book I was writing previously. Sighs. I need someone almost to stand over me with a whip and keep my monkey mind in check 😂 I will say I have written every single day on this book for some weeks so that is something! I am very proud of what has been written.
My thoughts are barbed wire,
a legion of cold, prickly strangers.
Can I come inside
your mind for a while?
I am tired of myself,
of my war-weary ego,
of oil slicks and fires
with grins wide enough
to swallow a man whole.
My heart is a broken-winged bird,
buried inside a bodice of flesh and bone.
If I let you exhume and unwrap me
will you let me see your vulnerable side
and should I find it within myself to fly
will you be both the wind that lifts me
and the roots that summon me home?
My voice is the sound
of the shore as it is
picked clean and pulverized
by tides both trivial and tyrannical.
I am struggling to find my courage.
Will you stand by me, for me,
against me when I’ve lost my way?
My body is full of conduits
and everything that enters me
finds a place and a means
by which to exist and multiply.
I write and I am made manifest.
I am full of coincidences,
of numbers repeating.
I am a dream too real
to be misplaced or undressed.
I am no more or no less.
I am the other side of you.
I am not sure this makes sense I am feeling overwhelmed and stressed at the moment
You are the fetish which binds
my wayward thoughts together.
I return to you again and again
as an animal driven by instinct,
as a woman who is unmistakably sensual.
At night when no one is looking
I surrender to the otherworldly,
to the dreams that we become
when the affectations
of the day have ceased to sow
their bitter seeds in us.
No one fits inside of me
the way that you do.
I want to give you something real,
my willful but willing heart,
my imperfect self,
my revolutionary tendencies.
I think that we could create
something extraordinary together,
combining our talents
and the guilty weight
of those passions which threaten
to consume us over time.
When I am alone
I reinvent the astonishment
of that first sunrise
in a way which, for all its carnality,
is a supremely gentle act.
When I am alone
spilling over a precipice
created by my own insistence
your face enters my mind
and I see in you
every color imaginable.
I love the way your mouth moves
across the metaphors of poems
your soul has not yet written.
I love the potential of hidden things.
I love how the word midnight
sounds both romantic and sinister,
and I love the idea of waking up
exactly in the middle of something
and finding that the shadows
have a substance that the day
has yet to witness.
I know that everything
your hands touch
becomes art in my eyes
and that a beauty
bestowed by love
can never be diminished.
I know that I would
gladly spend lifetimes
getting to know you
because you are the only one
who has ever made me feel lucid.
My heart whittles away all intermediary
None who enter shall ever replicate her song
In the absence of data there is always instinct
That I exist is the only catalyst essential to expression
I dream of brush-fires and lightening
Of incidentals and incendiaries
I am intolerant of dysfunction
When it overtakes my composition
To be an alien in the the desert
Is exceptional only in the clarity
Of a well-articulated obligation
Better to be the only Venusian
In a fountain of supple dreams
All these delusions
These unsolicited truths
Shed on gestation
They are mine to gather
Who else exists that can
Define precisely their shape?
I exist in the minutiae
In the dalliances
Of stones and silhouettes
The muse’s pock-marked face
Composed in odyssey
I am not afraid of demons
Only of men who speak falsely
Were I without hope
I’d cease scavenging
Were I without gratitude
My pen would halt
Its recursive sonnet
I am an optimist canvassing
Hell for a paradise lost
A misfit who sees angels
In the veils of the prosaic
My non appointment appointment took an unexpectedly long time. Though there was a scheduling error and they sent me home as soon as I arrived I spent a weird amount of time trying to get home again. I didn’t have much time to write and I now have the pressure of knowing the appointment isn’t even over yet!
Now usually I would offer you multiple images but this week I want to see how one picture can inspire individuality. As always I accept all types of self-expression so whatever your preferred medium. Remember to read and comment to as many entries as possible =) I have noticed a lot of you routinely leaving feedback for your fellow participants so I would like to thank you for that!
With your ambitions
Coffers of diversion
Oceans of unshed tears
You are the fetish
Even the most
From every room
You’ve driven out
In broad daylight
I crawl leprous
Over the walls
The engorged cavities
Your capacious muse
At a time
I live with a genius as you know. Geniuses are curious lot. Our apartment is very small but alas the genius cannot put away his tools lest he be unprepared or discouraged when inspiration strikes. My genius has many hobbies: sewing, painting, writing, computers, wood-working, mechanics and electronics, cooking, mathematics (he invented another form of Geometry), and on and on. Sadly I am not very good at organizing!
Burnt amber, those pupil-less eyes
Which are adept only at abstraction
Cadaverous white, that flesh tattooed in
Psionic wounds for which there is no closing
Scarlet Ibis, those lips which in mourning
Bleed, a language of the viscera and corpuscles
Graffiti black, that hair which spills over the
Walls like inky runes, betraying and dissecting
My heart on concrete, as if in autopsy
Her face is unclothed, neither disguised nor
Accented as if imperfection were virtue, she
Speaks bluntly about truth despite the horrors
Enclosed. Unlike me she doesn’t understand
The nature of fear and if my words hesitate
It is only because I have sedated the pen
She sleeps in the crawl space right between
My heart and diaphragm, my eremitic muse.
Her needs are few though she is demanding
I’m not her master but rather her shell
She is a psychopomp in ashen cassock that
Speaks through me in dreams, those words
Which only the dead may know. She sends me
Prophecies but for what end I am uncertain
I am no more alive than she is human, she
Is a fiend, an outcast unaware of exclusion
She is consumed by her own obsessions and
Does not care to what detriment I am exposed
Yet it is she that applies the formaldehyde which
Keeps me here, preserved, vaguely sentient we are
The same in the sense that we are inseparable
I chose this image because it looks like unattached/unformed muses, I was unable to find an image that really resembled my actual muse. My muse though spooky is not evil (amoral not immoral like nature I suppose) . I do not have an actual name for her but I sometimes refer to her as Ei Vene because there is a character in Planescape Torment for which she has some similarities and whom I use to represent her
I have broken down inside of these poems,
Each one a declaration of war
My heart is made of cartilage
The softer flesh has, in support
Of my deficiencies, hardened
Time does not resolve
I am certain to remain
Between the lines
I have spent too much time
Deciphering to create,
In any case, the void does not
My muse is full of detours and distinctions
Sometimes I wonder what a topic implies
About the state of my immortal soul
My fictional works being especially gregarious
Lack the armament necessary to safeguard their secrets
I like to feel the words, which given my execution
Lift up from the page like Braille
I don’t need ink to solidify my grievances
They are bourne in my blood, like ruin